


Howl

by Ruby_Wednesday



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Post-Canon, ScotSwap Exchange, Scotland, he's trying ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 13:42:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14916422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruby_Wednesday/pseuds/Ruby_Wednesday
Summary: Three times a year, the Scots must hunt wolves.





	Howl

**Author's Note:**

> Be gentle, please. It's my first Lymond fic. For Scotswap 2018. Un-beta'd.

_Prompt for a non-AU: francis trying to be a dad sort of???? it hurts and it sucks and whoever kuzum actually is francis will never feel like kuzum is his, but francis is an adult and he can’t just ignore his demons so idk. let him make an effort. maybe it’s awful, maybe he ruins it. but let him make an attempt_

_A symbol/metaphor from the books that has stuck with you: the wolves are appointed our godfathers_

 

* * *

 

Three hunts a year, a King ordered once and Francis Crawford of Lymond knew better than most that what royals get royals want. In wild woods, previously a playground for an innocent outlaw who thought he knew the whole world, wolves roamed. They mated and hunted and did all the things animals were created to do. Their howls had kept many a child from sleep and many a man from drifting off during watch.

Newly retired, still in-demand, Francis was the exact sort of man courted for these things. He had relative youth on his side and a reputation for creating havoc with an arrow or a hound. He had skill. He had money and he had a beaming, vibrant energy that drew people in and then made them expect things of him.

For those reasons, and many more, he refused invitations to hunts like his dear Phillipa had assured him she refused invites to dance below in London. Demurring had felt like freedom, until royal charters were re-issued and one or two snide remarks about having an English wife reached his ears. Blood and sacrifice was not enough for this damned, blessed country.

Francis had to take to the woods, too, and having refused so many requests from his landed neighbours, he found himself where he had wanted to be all along : a member of the Crawford of MidCulter riding party.

Richard being Richard, his excursion was practical and without the pomp and excess of other hunts throughout their native land. This was work. One could socialise later. _(Francis, do you hear me? Good god, is that a mongoose?)_

Richard was a landlord who valued responsibility. He and his tenants had a many a herd. The survival of their livestock was necessary to the survival of their estate.  
He was right about the taking this seriously and not to get caught up in being lavish just because the Regent or the Dowager Queen had vague associations with this practice.

He was half right about the mongoose, too,but Francis did not need to tell him that. Pranks could wait. For now, Lymond’s priority was the sparse party set out to curb the cub population and the lanky blond child who had made himself part of his shadow.

_(”The boy is too young.” “But Kevin is going.” “Kevin is the heir.” “Listen to yourself.”)_

The boy had already packed.

Thankfully, one of the defining elements of this type of hunt was silence. It wasn’t like foxes, with the yelping hounds and clattering hooves and the rising bloodlust in the air. Francis would not bring Kuzum to that kind of hunt any more than he would observe his swordcraft lessons. Inside Francis Crawford was a labyrinth of rooms with doors that he was not strong enough to open. Sometimes Fear, the noisiest space, would threaten and swell until the gasket nearly broke.

 _(”You can’t fear a child!” “Don’t you see? I fear how I will react!”_ )

The thing about hunting was, you were meant not to react until the very moment you could do nothing else. You made your body still and suppressed those instinctual flinches and twitches.

And then you struck.

“I—” Kuzum began, under the dappled shade of a tree, then stopped.

“No,” said Francis. “Go on.” They weren’t doing much of anything yet. The servants voices carried from the nearby camp as they tidied up after the mid-day meal. Richard’s deep, serious voice rumbled over too. He was explaining a particular knot to Kevin. Francis had to suppress the urge to send the boy over to the brother who happily taught younger generations all he knew. Let Richard be the mentor while Francis killed things.

“You’re better at knots than Uncle Richard, sir. Everyone knows you’re the best sailor. Grand-mere told me herself.”

“That’s correct, I am better.” At least Francis could relate to Kuzum on the subject of his own superiority. “Dare I ask what else they have said about me and sailing?” As if the marks on his hands didn’t say enough.

“No, sir.”

“I dare not ask?”

Kuzum smiled at that; the tiniest flicker of his lips. He could appreciate sharp humour. Thank you, Kate.

“Grand-Mere and Mariotta say they know why.”

“Is that so?”

“But not in our language. So I could only understand a little, sir.”

“Circumspect.”

“They said something about floating, I believe.”

Francis gave a nod. It was more curt than he had intended. “That wasn’t what you had began to say earlier.”

“Why do we do it?”

“Sail? Because this land is an island.”

Kuzum flickered again. “Hunt the wolves, I mean. They are …I don.t…”

Francis concentrated on sharpening his arrows. It was right to give the boy some time to gather his thoughts. A little philosophy never hurt anyone, anyway. Especially as Francis wasn’t sure a French education was in this boy’s future. He wasn’t anywhere near fluent and … and Sevigny was in France.

“They are being wolves. Like Adam said about the puppies. They don’t think like us. They just want to live.”

“So do people,” Francis said.

“You know what I mean! They don’t mean to do it. Not like the bad soldiers. They get hungry or angry or…” His eyes were shining now and Francs had a new fear.

_(”Madness. You see now how it was madness?”)_

“It’s not their fault they are animals. Like it’s not my fault I —”

“Yes?”

“I don’t like it when they cry,” Kuzum whispered. “Adam had to kill the lame horse. I didn’t like it.”

“Neither did Adam.” Lymond’s throat was dry and his words came out raw. “That is the point, you see?”

“But why do we do it?”

“If we don’t make efforts,” he said with a sigh that came from his bones, “To keep them at bay, then no-one will be safe. The chickens that give our eggs and lambs prancing in  
the fields. The calves for milk and the ponies for boys to learn proper riding. It’s not the wolves fault. But it’s not the chicken’s fault it can’t fly away or the ponies fault it’s still gangly or trapped in a stable. Do you see, Kuzum? Tell me you see.”

Kuzum nodded with wide, guileless eyes that showed he did not see at all.

“The baby,” Francis said. “When it comes. A chicken won’t hurt it. A wolf could. Do you see?”

“Don’t the mother wolves want to protect their babies?”

Francis needed a moment.

The intricacies of chaotic royal courts were easier than this.

“We do,” he said. “They do. Perhaps I should have made that your first lesson: the endless injustice of this world we live in.”

“Life’s not fair.” Kuzum nodded sagely. “Aunt Kate says that when I say it’s not fair that I have to go to reading lessons with Master Glynn.”

Francis found a thread. “We hunt for the same reason you learn your letters. It is necessary.”

“Did my mother want to protect me?” The boy asked and a strange quiver went through Francis, as if he was every part of the bow and the arrow too. His senses flooded with  
seawater and peaches and beautifully appointed room he could never revisit.

“Yes,” Francis said. “She made a Crawford, didn’t she?”

Kuzum nodded. “But now…maybe, I’ll just watch. Kevin can call me a baby if he wants. I’m his cousin. I know he sucks his thumb in bed.”

“That’s a wise decision.”

“I won’t tell anyone Kevin sucks his thumb. But I know it. “

“You have just told me, young lad.”

“That doesn’t count. We’re all family,” Kuzum said. He said it with a quiet confidence that made Francis experience a tiny burst of something he never thought he could feel.

“You know,” Lymond said. “Wolves travel in packs. There’s so many of them, we’d spot a trail by now. These traps are only practice.”

“Packs,” Kuzum said. “Wait, practice, sir?”

“One can do a lot with ropes and netting,” Francis continued. “Would you care to assist me in temporarily capturing the Earl of Culter and his young heir?”

“Sir,” said Kuzum, eager and shocked. “What if—”

“We won’t tell Sybilla. Or Kate.”

“Phillipa?”

“We will definitely tell Phillipa.”

Kuzum’s flicker burst into flame; a big warm smile that didn’t chip away at Francis’s heart. In the distance, he heard a howl. 

It could wait.


End file.
